


The Statistical Probability

by Prosodi



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Choking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's currently a 2.7% rate of fatality attributed to erotic asphyxiation." Dorian pauses. He tips his head, all slight ambivalence without drawing his eyes away from his hands at John's neck. "That seems low."</p><p>"Dorian."</p><p>"Oh. Right." And he tightens his fingers accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Statistical Probability

It doesn’t happen any time soon because John Kennex is John Kennex - which is to say, he likes to pretend that his home and work life are two separate entities even when they’re not. He doesn't invite Dorian over for basketball games or patio barbecues or any of that shit you'd do with a (mostly) organic partner; Dorian doesn't eat. He knows too many stats to make watching sports even remotely enjoyable and he takes too much pleasure out of ruining the games by calculating odds during half time (which is something Kennex only knows because they once are stuck in this back room of a sports club for four hours while they tail some guy and they've got the Philly game playing on six of the eight screens).

But if John Kennex knows anything it's that time messes with your head. It makes clearly defined lines blurry. So it happens. Then, for some reason, it keeps happening and eventually he finds himself flat on his back, Dorian straddling him while carefully bearing down more weight on his throat by a precise adjustment of degrees.

"You really think this is a good idea?" Dorian asks, the side of his face crawling blue under the skin.

"What're you doing?" It doesn't answer the question. John can feel his voice rasp under Dorian's fingers, tight and shallow and pinched.

"There's currently a 2.7% rate of fatality attributed to erotic asphyxiation." Dorian pauses. He tips his head, all slight ambivalence without drawing his eyes away from his hands at John's neck. "That seems low."

"Dorian."

"Oh. Right." And he tightens his fingers accordingly.

Androids, DRNs especially, have whorls on their fingertips. They aren't distinct, except sometimes by manufacturer, and they're technically for the purpose of sensing texture: what's soft; what's rough; something smooth versus something spongy. It means that Dorian's hands on John's neck are firm and worn, texturally correct. John thinks that might be a better purpose - though even he'll admit to prioritizing tactile, organic sensation and need above any kind of manufactured purpose. Most importantly, Dorian's hands are warm and his weight is steady both there at his throat and across his his upper thighs. When Dorian rolls his hips across the front of John's pants, his grip doesn't shift at all. John would ask where he learned that, but the only noise he can make is a low hissing one. He pants across the back of his teeth as Dorian grinds against him.

\--(At some later date, when Kennex feels he can ask these things even though he has to stare hard through the windshield while he does it instead of looking at Dorian, Dorian will answer "Madame Belmonte's online salsa classes. She has twelve easy to follow videos. Apparently dancing is a lot like sex. Which would explain why you're not very good at it actually."

Kennex looks then, bristling. "The dancing or the sex?"

Dorian hums low and swings his head around to look out the passenger side window. It's damningly noncommittal.)--

In the half light of the room, John can feel himself narrowing to fixed points: the heat in his throat, the heat in his groin; Dorian's arms as immovable lines stretching away out of his grip and control. There's bulk and strength, power and immobility, Dorian's soft hands turned hard for the sake of something John expressly asked of him.

\--("This is really what you want?" Dorian asks before straddling him. There's a line of uncertainty pressed between his eyebrows.

John lays back on the bed. He tries not to set his jaw, but it's habitual. "I want you to." And then amends, because there are uncomfortable implications there that John doesn't want to think about but has to: "If you want to."

Dorian settles across him and sheds his jacket.)--

He's hard under the slow, purposeful roll of Dorian's hips, cock tight in his pants. The matching restriction of that should be better than it is, but the ceiling is the same color as the bed sheets. He can taste something strange and unfamiliar in his own breath, in his own mouth; he can hear his heart in his throat and knows it’s his because Dorian doesn't have one. His hand catches up then, numbly touching Dorian's forearm, then his wrist. John blinks slowly.

"John?" Dorian asks softly. He's still grinding slow over top of him and his eyes are bright blue pinpricks in the dim room.

Dorian smells like lavender and something slick like oil. If John were to close his eyes he could slide off on it, fingers loose and his back light. But his leg aches, he thinks - only he doesn't have one. John tightens his fingers on Dorian's wrist. A moment later he claws at him, croaks “Stop,” and Dorian promptly does: pulling his hands away as he straightens and stills.

The rush of air to his lungs makes his vision swim. It's a sudden, sharp awareness of color blooming back that makes him jerk as he comes under Dorian's barely-there contact across his groin. John digs his fingers into the android's wrist and makes low strangled noises of his own accord as he orgasms, gasping once the small of his back hits the mattress again. After a moment Dorian raises his spare hand gently - like someone showing they're unarmed - and then he carefully reaches down to unbutton John's pants and ease the zipper down. John sags low, low, low into the sheets and pillows, eyes sliding shut without the restriction of gripping fingers or buttoned down clothing or anything but a shadow of weight over him.

"If you let me go, I can get off you," says Dorian from somewhere beyond the darkness of his eyelids.

John thinks about not letting go, or about tightening his grip, or about pulling him down. He thinks about rolling Dorian over and pinning him down, but it’s been a long time and he still doesn't actually know anything about how thorough a DRN's programming is. He lets go of Dorian's arm. Dorian slides off him and off the edge of the bed.

"You know, only 52% of men actually fall asleep after orgasm, but popular media really makes it seem like closer to 80%."

John opens his eyes. Dorian's standing at the edge of the bed, head bowed as he carefully pulls his jacket back on.

"What're the odds that I'll ask you to go make me a sandwich instead?"

Dorian smiles. Sometimes John thinks there's something bugged out there from being in storage for so long, some miscalibration in the expression that makes it sadly lopsided. It's not something he asks Rudy about though because it’s none of his business (Rudy’s, obviously. John’s partner, John’s business).

"7%.” Dorian looks at him. His mouth is working hard at something John can’t distinguish. “You're not really a sandwich kind of guy."


End file.
